The King and the Lionheart
by J.B. Griffiths
Summary: Dean sees him and shuts his eyes. It can't be him. It can not be him. The Doctor isn't real. He was an imaginary friend he made up when he was eight. That night. Those stories. Those were all fake. They can't be real. He can't be real. Sam takes his hand, giving his fingers a squeeze, "Dean? What's wrong?" He knows what he should say. Nothin' Sammy. Just a daydream. A nightmare.
1. Chapter 1: Hot Cider

Chapter 1- Hot Cider

The Doctor decided that he should've left this small town in South Dakota about a week ago. But quite frankly, the perfect suburbia that made a microseism in these parts was just too entertaining to watch. Especially at this time of year.

Although it's bitterly cold outside, down to single digits without the constant blistering wind, he trudges over the white blanketed landscape once known as Humboldt Community Park. Blithely rubbing his hands together in a feeble attempt to warm them, he plods across the freshly fallen snow towards the lingering clump of citizens of this wonderfully intertwined community that were crowded at the edge of the skate pond, the thick flurry still whispering past his face and melting on the exposed flesh of his cheeks.

He'll never truly understand humans, he thought decisively, goggling in a sense of awe at the bustling figures that moved about across the park. Despite the temperature, there are people, _humans,_ out today. Little kids bundled up in snowsuits and scarves trundle through the knee-deep trough. Dogged teenagers pretending to be immune to the weather are leaning jauntily against the frozen lamp posts, and above their heads are several adults tethering oversized bright red bows atop the light fixture and stringing up a length of flashing colored bulbs across the towering pines that stand, lining the plowed path that curled up the hillside and out of sight.

Then there's him. This particular boy catches the Doctor's attention almost immediately. He's buried somewhere underneath a threadbare parka, which looks like it's lost most of its warmth from its years of use, let alone its several sizes too small for the lanky teenage boy. He's hunched over a metal hot dog cart, though the home-made sign that is tacked to the front proclaims that he's selling hot apple cider and roasted nuts. From the looks of it as well, the number of people cradling steaming styrofoam cups along the shore, he's doing fair business. And to be honest, shivering against the park bench, the Doctor could fancy a cup of cider right about now.

"Hello there," the Doctor says cheekily, coming up alongside the young man.

"Happy Holidays," the boy grunts out, and it's sounds more than a little rehearsed and cynical. His pale lips are pressed together into a thin line and he looks decidedly uncomfortable, hands shoved in his pocket as he shakes violently in a desperate attempt to fight off the cold. He puffs out another breath, a cloud of steam appearing in the air, and he shifts, tilting his head to get a better view of the Doctor. It should resemble a sign of respect, to meet his customers' eyes, but it just gives the Doctor a pang of pity at the visible clatter of the poor child's teeth and the burdened look in his bottle green eyes. Finally, the boy speaks, "What're you here for, sir?"

"Just here to check out your set up, that okay?" It's a formality, the question, and the boy just drops his gaze and shrugs.

"Whatever floats your boat, dude," the words come out rough and disinterested, but the boy bounces on the balls of his feet as he says them, which could be a sign of the cold but the Doctor can feel the nervous tension settle between.

The boy must be affected by it too, because he suddenly jerks his head in the direction the gold chain draping out from the Doctor's overcoat, spitting out, "What time?" An unreadable expression flickered across his features and he lowered his voice as if asking for forgiveness, "If you don't mind, sir?"

"Not at all, my boy," the Doctor smiles easily, flipping up his wrist to catch sight of the wristwatch. "Ten past two."

At that, the boy curses under his breath.

"What is it?"

The boy shoots the Doctor another suspicious look, but just shakes his head. "I'm gonna be missing pieces when I get home," he announces sourly, scrubbing his hands inside the coat's pockets. "Seriously, I'm freezin' my ass off out here."

"Your coat looks warm," the Doctor offers, then steps back as a skater comes skidding to a stop in front of the booth. She asks for a refill, and at first the Doctor watches the transaction casually, then snaps to attention when as he sees the juvenile take his hands out of his pockets to pour cider and accept the stranger's fifty cents. Fifteen below with wind-chill, and this child isn't wearing any gloves.

Enough is enough, he thinks angrily, and schools his face into a gentle calm. "Hey-" he doesn't actually know this kid's name- "maybe you should take a break and come inside. Or at least get yourself some gloves. It's brass monkeys out here today."

"Brass monkeys?" the kid asks with a skeptical cock of his eyebrow.

"Cold," the doctor corrects himself. "It's extremely cold."

"No shit Sherlock," the boy grumbles, and removes his hands to pour another cup of cider for a bypasser.

Exhaling forcefully, seeing this teenager is just a stubborn and firm as the others, the Doctor decides to take another approach. Turning to the boy, staring down at his hunched form, he makes his voice as compassionate as possible, "What's your name, kid?"

"What difference does that make to you?" the boy shoots back, his eyes hard and untrusting on his sneakers.

"I'm the Doctor," he tries again, a smile tugging at his face as he sees the befuddlement and curiosity passing over the boy's features.

"The Doctor?" When he scrunches his nose in confusement, his freckles dance. "Doctor who?"

The Doctor laughs. Who indeed. But at least the boy seems to be softening as curiosity consumes his pride. Taking the presented opportunity, the Doctor leans down, just so he isn't completely towering over the boy. "Your name first." The boy straightens with those words, his eyes darting up and down, and even though the movement is harmless enough, the intentions are a little wounding. He is sizing him up. He's judging if he can beat him. He is terrified of trusting him.

After a moment passes, he drops his gaze and shuffles awkwardly in the snow, scuffing the fluffy white with his toe. The name comes out short, soft, cautious, "Dean."

The Doctor can't help himself from giving a grin. He extends a hand, which the boy- _Dean_ \- takes it as firmly as a grown man, shaking it just as well, and the Doctor nearly beams, "Alrighty then! Well, nice to meet you Dean." The boy's fingers are cold and icy folded inside his, stiff and overworked and sting of worry bites into the Doctor's heart.

"Likewise." The word is strong. Gruff. Hardened. Frozen into a solid block.

"So what are you doing out here, Dean?" It feels better on his tongue, giving this boy a name.

Dean looks at him with a question in his eyes. "What does it look like?" he sneers, then that same panicked expression twists his face and he says quickly, "Selling hot apple cider, sir."

"No need to call me 'Sir'," the Doctor reassures him, "Doctor's fine."

"Well then, Doctor, you gonna buy somethin' or you just gonna stand there and look pretty," he quips back, and the Doctor could see him rebuilding his defences now the two had found some common ground.

"Soon," the Doctor shrugs. "And that's not what I mean, Dean," the Doctor amends, "I mean what are you doing here? Why aren't you at home with your family? It's three days before Christmas for Heaven's sake!"

Dean actually scoffs, shaking his head with a knowing smile.

"What is it, Dean?"

When he raises his gaze to meet the Doctor's, his eyes are uncomfortably wet. "That's exactly it, Doc: family." At first, the Doctor thinks that's the end of it, the way Dean hushes. But then Dean wags his head with a quiet chuckle. And Dean's speaking again, his voice thick and heavy with unbidden emotion, "Ya see, Doc, I -uh- I have this pain-in-the-ass little brother back where we're stayin' and my Dad's not gonna be home for Christmas and… and… and I -uh- he still believes in Ol' Saint Nick -Santie Claus- ya know." He breathes a loving, exasperated laugh. "And he's my responsibility. I'm not gonna let him down."

The Doctor freezes at the confession, trying to contemplate each bit of information, each bit of screaming pain in his words, and then realizes that Dean's laughing. A rough, mirthless laugh. He gives the Doctor a cocky grin, and adds, "Plus, we're almost outta food."

It comes out as an easy joke, a playful jab at whatever Dean is hinting at, but for the Doctor it hits a little too close to home. This _child_ admonishing himself for his parents' misjudgment.

"So," Dean sighs and mops his turning purple hands across his face, before fisting them back into his coat pockets, "I'm just scrounging up what I can. Just doin' my best to make ends meet." His voice trails off as he inspects the half full change jar where he's been clearly collecting his profits in. After he seemed satisfied, he sets it out on the stand, watching it longingly for a second more before turning back to the Doctor.

The Doctor hopes that he had a mind enough to bring American currency as he rummages through his coat's plentiful pockets, finally withdrawing a wad of cash. Thumbing through it, he counts out two twenties and three fives, bunches them into a fist and thrusts them into the Mason. "One cup of hot cider please."

Dean stands there, slack-jawed and eyes wide, for a minute before finally propelling himself into action. Pouring the Doctor a cup filled to the rim in apple cider, he hands it over and begins to study the bills with a confused almost worried expression, and it pained the Doctor to read the utter distress on the boy's face as he waits fearfully for the other boot to drop.

Bidding Dean a good day, the Doctor walked out of the park, replaying the fascinating encounter with that strange boy. As he reached the ridge of trees, now flashing red and green and gold, he tosses the words over his shoulder, making sure to pitch them far enough for Dean to catch wind of them. "Oh, and don't forget to buy yourself a pair of good gloves with that money."

Without another look back, the Doctor trudges through the snow, taking long and slow sips of cider. He never had better.


	2. Chapter 2: On Top the Ice

Chapter 2- On Top the Ice

Eight days later, Dean's hot cider and nuts stand is replaced by ice skate rentals. The booth stands like a bright red flame in the swarm of drably clothed people. It rises up as the centerpiece of the momentous gathering, groups of people cranking around it like pinwheels.

It's the Humbolt Community New Year's Eve Picnic.

The Doctor is still slightly shaken as he weaves his way through the crowds. With one turn around on his heels, it doesn't take him long to realize he is on the outs even more than usual here. Everybody seems to know everyone, which is way to normal for the Doctor's comfort, and all the bright faces and smiles are giving the day a surreal tint. It will take some convincing to have the Doctor actually come to the conclusion that this small town Americana still exists, not in same universe as all the blood and violence he's seen, not in the same universe as the Time War.

This isn't the world the Doctor has become accustomed to. He's seen all different ages and decades, and this simple suburbia still manages shock him.

Most of all, he's utterly fascinated by it. Not just fascinated, he's bloody enticed with the prospect of living this way. He finds himself yearning to feel the web of endless connections between the citizens, to study them and watch in awe as they grow not only alongside but _with_ each other. He finds himself getting impulses to be part of this wonderful little ecosystem, to root himself down just for a century or so and just live amongst these amazing human being, to stretch his legs for a while and just be. He's so awfully beguiled by these wonderments of unity that he finds himself dishing out his own greeting smiles, sparking small talk with some of the locals. They seemed shifty around him enough, sure, but from his bouncy, cheeky nature, it took all of two hours before they grudgingly allowed him to create a niche in their conversations and going ons. And his chest warms with sudden acceptance.

He just waves off a pot-bellied dad named Dave when a clump of people dawdle away, and there's Dean.

He may be surrounded by crowds of people, but now the Doctor has caught sight of him, he doesn't understand how it took him this long to notice him. Sure, he's wearing a parka just like the rest of the commune, and the worn jeans and sneakers aren't too out of place, but he sticks out like a sore thumb in this cheery environment. He's the only one that people aren't talking to- no jovial grins, no casual joking or cheering, no acknowledgement whatsoever. He's on an island all by himself. Well, that's not all true, there's an anklebiter dangling from the crook of his elbow. The little brother he spoke so fondly of the first time they met, the Doctor thinks.

And from the appearance of the small boy, the Doctor notices that Dean kept his promise. The toddler's left hand, not the hand he's using to cling onto his older brother arm, is hooked around the foot of a stuffed moose. Even from the distance, the Doctor can see the elegant green bow tied around the toy animal's neck, its lifeless smiling face partly hidden beneath caked snow. It's being dragged gracelessly across the snow covered ground as the child moves, toddling about his older brothers feet in discoordinated circles. It takes the Doctor a moment to realize the boy has skates laced on his feet and that Dean is doing his best to pull him along. Pulling him along with the most belated expression on his face.

Dean's grinning a disarming grin, nothing but pure joy radiating from his carefree smile. The littlest brother tugs softly at the sleeve of Dean's jacket, and whispers something private, at which Dean tosses his head back in a laugh of easy-going exuberance, such drastically different from the burdened, sharp-mouthed teen that the Doctor witnessed not more than a week previous. And it warms the Doctor's heart to see the boy like this.

As Dean starts to relax, his shoulders still bouncing jovially at the joke his brother just made, his eyes dart reflexively around him. And, inevitably, they catch on the Doctor.

The jubilant open-mouthed smile doesn't so much as disappear than it does soften, the the blinding sunlight that seemingly flows from the expression falling into a lull of overcast.

Finally, the Doctor senses he's moving forward, half-walking, half-skipping, waving brazenly in effort to attract more positive attention from the kid. "Dean!" he calls, keeping his voice light and bouncy besides the dimming features of his face, "Dean!"

The look in Dean's darkened eyes is anything but welcoming, untrusting and overly wary, but the smile is still wavering on his lips, "Hey Doc." A burst of joy unexpectedly explodes in the Doctor's chest at the characteristically corny nickname.

The youngest is still clutching onto Dean's arm for balance, watching the Doctor with matching wariness, and up close, the Doctor can tell that he is actually older than he appeared from the distance. He looks almost eight now, dimpled cheeks flushed a rosy pink in the cold. Shifting nervously away, the boy takes a cautious step back, releasing his older brother.

As he opens his mouth to ask Dean to introduce him to his small companion, the Doctor is stopped by a flash of color.

"Dean! Dean! Dean!" Something waist-high and brightly dressed- a small child, the Doctor understands- barrels into Dean suddenly from the side. Dean good naturedly lets the impact drive him back a few steps, and then grunts as second boy collides with his legs from the other direction in a fruitless attempt to sweep him off his feet. Giggling, the new boy doesn't hesitate to before trying to climb up Dean's body, and as the Doctor watches with a swelling affection for the loving teen he's witnessing before him, Dean crouches down and lets the boy scramble up onto his back.

"Dean!" the first boy says again, yanking at Dean's glove clad- thank god- hand. "Mommy says if someone watches us, we can go ice skating! And you said you would teach us how to do the Chicken!" The maroon pom-pom bobbs in agreement atop his head.

"You sure I said that?" Dean asks, contorting his arm behind his back to steady the boy clambering up on his shoulders. "Cause I remember that I said you all were a bunch of _chickens!_ Buck-buck-buck." Dean clucks teasingly, jutting his head out and stalking around. The first kid giggles and tackles against Dean again, wrapping his arms around his knees and halting the estranged teenager.

"Please?" the second boy pleads as Dean straightens again. He has his hand twisted in Dean's hair, hanging on, and Dean winces as he gives a rough tug. At first, the Doctor thinks that Dean's going to order him down, but Dean doesn't, just lets his face melt into a two parts caring one part exasperated smile that just says: _Kids will be kids._

Dean doesn't look back at the Doctor, all his focus on the boys as he says, "Isn't Tuck the lifeguard on duty? Why don't you ask him to watch you?"

"Tuck's a son of a bitch," the boy on Dean's shoulders replies, then adds, "Plus he isn't as fun as you!" Registering the flush that colors Dean's cheeks, the Doctor knows exactly where he learned them from.

"Better not be using that type of language 'round your ma," Dean mutters.

"I'm not a dumb-dumb," comes the response, his knuckle clocking Dean on the temple indignantly.

"Jackson! Kyle!" That's a woman's voice, and the Doctor turns to see a younger woman with long ginger hair running toward them. The boy on Dean's back hunches over, clearly doing his best to be inconspicuous, but boy hanging onto Dean's hand just offers the woman a huge smile and waves.

"Hi, mom!" he hollers. "We found him!"

"I can see that," the woman replies, and then lifts her gaze to Dean with an apologetic smile. The smile is shallow though, doesn't breach more than the surface, a disapproving glare hidden underneath her mask of motherly compassion. "Sorry."

"No problem, Nancy," Dean ignores her sourness with a blissful smile, and leans down and gives the boy on his shoulders a tap on the hip. The boy sighs a disappointed noise but climbs off without any further protest.

Nancy shoots the Doctor a quick glance while gathering up her kids. "You must be the boys' father. Nice to finally meet you." She thrusts out a hand in the Doctor. "I'm Nancy McFry. I live a few blocks down from the motel you are staying at."

Dismissing her extended hand with a wave of his fingers, he's grinning sheepishly as he says, "Oh no! I'm not Dean's father! Just a family friend." Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the younger brother steal a questioning look at the eldest, and Dean giving the Doctor a bewildered almost betrayed stare.

Nancy's eyes dart back over to the clearly discomforted Dean as she struggles to get a grip on her boys, she nods and says, "Well, we're going to get out of your hair. Enjoy the picnic!"

"Thank you!" the Doctor shouts at her receding back, watching as she heads back toward the crowd surrounding the pond for a minute before chancing a glance back at the two befuddled boys. Dean is standing stiffly, both his hands clenched into fists. He looks as though he wants to haul off and punch something (the Doctor probably) and the muscles in his jaw twitch.

The youngest of the trio of is the first to break the silence. "Dean-"

Dean turns on him, the fiery snapping rage spilling over his high walls, and he cuts him off shortly with, "Look, Sam, can you give us a second. I need to talk to the Do- this guy. Okay?"

Sam gives a curt, shocked nod, then waddles away over to join the crowd.

With his brother, Sam, gone, Dean wheels on him, boiling hot anger frothing from his mouth, his eyes molten green steel. The Doctor expects some sort of violent outburst from him, but the only words that come out is: "Who the hell do you think you are?" The words are short, biting from the vicious tone of his voice.

"Dean, look… I told you, I'm the Doc-"

"Oh don't give me that crap!" he says sharply.

Somehow Dean gets his fingers fisted in the sleeve of the Doctor's overcoat, and jerks him harshly off to the side. They're pushing out of the crowd now, exiting to an isolated stand of pine trees, and when they pass through it, Dean takes the opportunity to whirl around and shove the Doctor's spine up against the bark, his arm a sturdy restraint barred across his chest. The Doctor grunts at the impact, and in contrast to the boys lanky stature, Dean's surprisingly strong and well built, and doesn't budge when the Doctor presses against his forearm. After that proves unsuccessful, he raises his arms up in surrender.

"Look Dean, just listen. I'm not here to hurt you… I'm just… I'm just…" What is he to say? He took a sudden interest in him when they first met? How does that not sound off? His thoughts are interrupted by a clipping pain that shoots from his cheekbone as his head snaps to the side. Dean had punched him. He was sure of that. He could feel the numbing pain blooming in the area. The coppery taste of his blood tinges the smell of fresh pine. He must've bit his tongue.

The undiluted fury that burns behind the bottle green is enough to tell the Doctor to hold still, and he manages not to strain away as Dean steps closer and growls, "I don't give a flying crap about why you're here. I want to know who you are. _What_ you are."

"I told you, Dean," he says, trying to maintain a soft, calm voice. "You have to trust me. Please."

"Why should I, huh?" Dean says incredulously, then with a jostle of his shoulder, he shoves the Doctor farther up the tree. Dean falls into one of his indecisive silences, a muted war burning in his eyes, then he lowers his voice, down far enough that the Doctor has to concentrate to pick up the words. The Doctor can feel the heat of the boy's breaths in the chilled winter air bristle on the side of his neck as he whispers, "Why in the world would I make that mistake again?"

All the sudden, the Doctor can breath again. He's sucking in needy, hungry breaths as Dean pushes him away, turning away and storming off in the opposite direction, his shoulders hunched protectively and head ducked down.

The next words the Doctor hears were not truly meant for him. More tossed aimlessly into the abyss of the unspoken, scattered carelessly across the snow covered ground, and the Doctor makes a desperate attempt to make sense of them. "Rule number one: the Doctor lies." At first, the Doctor isn't entirely sure it was Dean that said them. It was his voice, his gruff tone, sure, but it certainly could not _be_ him. Not really. There is no way for this boy to know that phrase, no way for him to have heard it at all.

And with those five words, the Doctor is flooded with the certainty that he could not let this remarkable mystery that was unfolding in front of him walk away.

"What did you say?" he hails.

The boy's footsteps falter a step, but he continues his journey with a stiffly monitored gate. Thankfully that gate is not very fast, maybe the teen's self conscious telling him to stay, and the Doctor is able to jog and catch up. Clamping a hand on his shoulder, Dean pivots and twists the Doctor's wrist as he whirs backwards, a clear, precise, practiced motion with the intent to break the trespasser's wrist if followed through completely.

Forcing the shakiness out from his voice, the Doctor repeats more firmly, "What did you say, Dean?"

"Rule number one." The words come out as mere breaths. But staring into Dean's now pale tea green eyes is enough to know that Dean is pleading him, depending on him. He's depending on him to prove him wrong.

"The Doctor lies," the Doctor finishes in the same verse.

Releasing his death grip, Dean plows onward. He makes a point of not looking back at the Doctor. The voice that drifts over the milky landscape can't be his. But it is, and it's his words that lodge themselves deep underneath the Doctor's ribcage, right where the rest of his guilt festers.

"You know, Doctor, the first time you told me that, I didn't believe you," Dean tells him, still not looking at him, still running away in his own passive way. "How could this man lie to me?" His voice becomes heated, angry all over again. "How could this man be so full shit like every other goddamned person on this goddamned planet!" He drives his sneaker into the soft slush, creating a splash of ice in the air. With a shaky voice, he says, "I was eight years old. I was freakin' eight, Doc. You couldn't have left a goddamned note? Why the hell did you have to come at all?"

"So I haven't done this yet?" the Doctor asks himself, fact checking mentally and Dean once again wheels on him with disbelieving eyes.

"What do you mean you haven't done that yet?" he snarls, and if he were an animal, his hackles would've been raised. He smacks both his palms roughly against the Doctor's chest, knocking him two steps back. Dean's eyes are watering with madness as he scoffs, "Yeah, well try four years ago." The fury poured into his words almost hides the mocking British accent he adds in emphasis, "Let's fly away with raggedy ol' Doctor in his whimsical blue box!"

That actually manages to stop the Doctor in his tracks. He can't get himself to move. He can't get himself to imagine what he did to deserve such hatred that floods those words. After a moment of stillness, the only thing moving is Dean, pacing purposefully away, shoulders stilted protectively, head bowed in defense, he clears his throat in a final attempt to soothe the boy. "Dean, I'm so very sorry. I don't know what I did, or will do, but…"

He doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence. A rush of blue. Snow burns cold on the exposed skin of his palms, his arms crutched underneath him to stop his fall. The tingling that shivers up his bare skin is nothing comparing to the white hot pain pulsing in his face. He's seeing stars. Tough calloused hands curl in the straps of his suspenders, and he finds himself being towed upward and on uncoordinated feet, tousled like a limp doll in the air.

"You freakin' left, you asshole. You said you wouldn't leave and you freakin' left. I was so ready to follow you on your stupid freakin' adventures and hop in your big blue magical box, and you left. You left me and Sammy, and you never came back. So don't you expect anything else from me." There's unforgiving coldness clipping in his voice, but it is also a shade cynical and self-loathing. The Doctor could recognize the tone anywhere; he's used it himself a more than a couple times.

The hands that were holding the Doctor up disappear, leaving him stilted on collapsing knees. He sinks into the cushioned drift of white, dropping without any protest, head bent down to his chest in shame. He can't bring himself to watch Dean, watch him run away, watch him beg for the answer that the Doctor cannot give. He can't watch this boy fall apart over him.

Before the Doctor plucks up enough courage to look up, Dean has slipped back into the crowd, on his way to find Sam no doubt.

The Doctor only sees Dean two more times in the next two hours or so, and always at a distance. The Doctor doesn't get much time to worry or fret about that though, because as soon as Dean is out of sight, the community goes open season on the Doctor. Everyone, especially the women, seems desperate to pick apart Dean and Sam's sketchy past and as far as their concern, the Doctor's relation to them. So apparently Nancy's thoughts spread like wildfires in these parts.

The Doctor spends the first hour doing everything he can to convince Dean's neighbors that he isn't Dean's father, and eventually people seem to get the picture and stop assuming. Once that problem has been addressed, it's easy enough for the Doctor to turn the locals' clumsy interrogations around and compile some of his own information on the brother's life. By the time the community sits down at the scatter of picnic tables for lunch- Dean next to Sam at the table farthest from where the Doctor sits- the Doctor has a basic thumbnail sketch of Dean Winchester, the elusive child that is always everywhere and nowhere all at once.

He's a vagabond, a no-homeboy, with no known family except for his little brother and supposed missing father and no known permanent whereabouts beside the Starlite Inn. According to some tales, he's a rebellious teenage rule-breaker with no restraints, while in others he seems like a good respectful kid. There are some details that ring true throughout the stories, mostly that he lives and breaths for kids (especially little Sammy) and that he can pretty much fix anything mechanical that isn't working right. There is a tiny bit far fetched popular encounter by a man named Jim who's car broke down in the middle of the road one fall afternoon, and to which the passing Winchester promptly fixed with nothing but a dirty rag and a socket wrench. Another is the tale of the flood, where Dean rescued four little three year olds marooned in an unexpected thunderstorm that had struck without warning and left the town in a swampy state. As the story goes, he risked his life trying to save the girls from an imploding apartment complex.

He has a few friends in town, mostly kids Sam's age and their families, but, for some reason that nobody can really specify, is generally disliked. The most common excuse is the vague hiddenness of his past. There is mistrust due to his lack of family. But something about the nervousness that the fellow parents say it with, the slight waver in their voices, tells the Doctor it is something more. Something about the boy named Dean Winchester that makes their stomachs flop and heart skip a beat. Something absolutely nerve-wracking. It terrifies them to a degree. If not that, why else would you stay away from the local hero?

He tries to ask Dean about it after the meal finishes, but before he gets close enough to even call Dean's name, he's moving away with a group of children (Jackson and Kyle and Sam included) for an impromptu game of tag on ice. Each member has a pair of skates strung around their fingers, and they chatter excitedly, Dean causing them to laugh on more than one occasion. There is a girl with dark curls hung loosely around Dean's neck, a bright pink scarf hiding most of her face as she stares past Dean's ear and at the Doctor.

When they get onto the frozen pond, the Doctor quickly notices that the game is only an excuse for ice-skating lessons. The squad are just as inexperienced as Sam looked on the snow, and as the Doctor watches from the sidelines, he sees Dean instruct and demonstrate different maneuvers on the ice, gliding skillfully from one person to the next, offering an arm to clutch onto when they wobble on unsure feet. The open-mouthed smile never leaves his face though, and the patience that should be burning up like a fuse seems replenishable with the blink of an eye.

The incident that followed was inevitable. You could practically see it coming, looming like a shadow over head. The Doctor could ponder for hours what would have happened if they had done anything different that day. If Dean hadn't been out on the ice, if he hadn't had the charming physique that invited utter strangers to come play, if the day was a mere degree cooler. But all of those things fell into place, Dean was grinning open-heartedly on the ice, the heat of afternoon warming the air as the sun beamed down on them in one of the first times in months. It was too hot though, the Doctor realizes soon enough, watching in trepidation as a thin puddle of melted water glassed over the circular pond. By the second, the layer of ice was beating away, first easily falling to slush underneath their blades, then melting on its own. It was miniscule, the changes, and probably would gone unnoticed until someone made the mistake to skate over the thinning center. And that, unavoidably, is what happened.

Dean is in the process helping Kyle (the Doctor thinks) up onto his feet from a particularly nasty trip that ended with the collision between the boy and Sam, when it happens. If he just hadn't turned around, if they had just gotten off the pond five minutes previous, maybe the drama would just have missed out altogether. Maybe Dean wouldn't have heard the terrified shriek of "Help!" and wouldn't have lost his bloody mind.

At the single call of "Help!" Dean snaps to attention. He pauses mid-pull, Kyle still scrambling to get better footing with Dean's hand around his bicep. His eyes are so sharp they look like green steel and he whips his head around to find the source of cry.

A girl, the girl with chocolate hair that Dean had been carrying over to the pond, the girl with the hot pink Barbie scarf, is teetering dead center of the pond. Her knobbly knees are shaking, her face a perfect mask of fear and distress, her dark eyes wide and filled with tears, her bottom lip trembling. Underneath her, the pale blue ice is mapped with veins of white as cracks cord from the blades of her skates. Without a second thought, Dean is running or more kicking off, every muscle rigid and on point, and Doctor thinks that he's never looked scarier. Dean's face is narrowed, his jaw set, a determined glint in his eye that says, "Nothing is going to get in my way." Even the risk of life and death.

The world, as though daring to prove his worth, decides to take the girl as its own. The ice cascades, the lake swallowing the child whole and engulfing her underneath the folds of broken ice and froth.

The collective scream from the parents lining the shore of "Cassey!" echoed throughout Humboldt community park.

The name is quickly followed by a new sound, a new name, as Dean vaults through the air and plunges head first into the water.


	3. Chapter 3: Into the Depths

Cassey. Ice. Broken. Splash. Gone. _HELP!_

The thoughts race through Dean's head at the speed of sound. Except he isn't thinking, he's just doing. His body is on auto-pilot. He heard the cry and saw that tiny body drop into white slush, and all of a sudden it just kind of clicked. Then he was in motion, ramming his heel into the ice and running forward, then he was flying, then he was freakin' falling, and then he's landing.

First there was the cold. It was a bone-chilling, muscle-cramping cold. It bit into him and sunk its fangs into every one of his working cells, leaving them spasming a thousand different directions, a coil of icy hot pain spiralling through his limbs.

The crushing impact of slamming into the water is worse than he imagined. Sure, he's jumped, hell even belly-flopped, into public pools more times than he can freaking count but this freaking hurts. It feels like he is slamming into solid concrete, then that concrete dropping out from underneath him, leaving him lost in sea of frigid water that two parts liquid one part solid and shrouded in chilling darkness. It's a miracle he didn't overshoot and hit the circular ridge of ice that crowns the spot where the girl had fell in, but he thought he might as well have for the bone-jarring slap of his body hitting the half frozen slush. His whole chest throbs, and he struggles just to retain the breath he managed to take in before the plunge. He momentarily considers about turning around and returning to the surface, his oxygen starved lungs clawing at his ribs. But then there was that flash of pink ( _the pink scarf! her pink Barbie scarf!)_ , barely a blur in his pain fogged eyes, and he manages to force it back- his panic, his pain, his disorientation- so he could just get the damn job done.

He kicks frantically at the water, propelling him downward, farther into the sun deprived navy. He surges after the sinking toddler, thrashing his arms desperately, trying his damndest to focus on the single flare of color, a brilliant pink that reams like a ray of sunlight through the murky water.

His right hand abandons his efforts to stretch, fingers grazing her purple jacket, his eyes finding hers. Empty black pits. Up close, he could see her soft brown hair fanning in a mane around her porcelain face, stony and emotionless. Dead.

His heart jumped into his aching throat.

Then he had her. It felt like it took a years to get to her, and by the time he did his arms and legs felt like rubber, but clasping a strong fist around her arm pumped him full of renewed energy. Maybe it was just adrenaline kicking in, or maybe just renewed hope, but a small burst of electricity ran from his head to his toes and he pulls her to his chest, resting her head gently on his shoulder, and using his free left arm to pull them to the surface.

It seems slow going, having to get both of them back up to opening. He doubts that he could have done this for just himself, already about ready to collapse and die. He's ninety-nine percent sure he's gonna do that as soon as he gets both of them up onto the ice (maybe perform some CPR on this little girl because she was not _freaking dying today, dammit!_ ).

Outside of his thoughts, the hand that breaks the slush is not his own, but a person from the outside offering help. Dean ponders just shoving the little girl into the man's hand, to have just her return to the surface, to just die in his own little misery. A hero's death, he'd say. But Sammy. His little brother's face bubbles to focus in Dean's mind's eye. He's alone at the motel, attending a funeral with an empty casket. For some reason Dad isn't there. He's still gone on his hunt, Dean guesses, but it doesn't take that much imagination to conjure a pretty good guess of what his expression would be. All firm disappointment with a dash of sorrow. The last bit of air is driven from his lungs with that particular knife, the blade driven clear through his sternum, the hilt buried deep in his chest. With a final kick, Dean manages to get a grip on the hand and he feels himself being heaved out, choking and sputtering on the sudden expanse of fresh air. For purely selfless reason, he coughs out the last of lake water and finds his muscles recoiling as more hands reach for him, a stand of many easing him onto the ice. Dean had never really like touches, especially from strangers, but now a rush of relief issued after the brief panic at the realization that he wasn't alone in this anymore: he wasn't going to be dragged down to a watery grave down with this girl he couldn't save, this little girl who deserved to live so much more than him.

Dean hadn't prayed since his mother died. But now he does. He does it desperately. He prays this little girl was still alive.

Blinking away the tears that had started to form, he kept his vision trained on the still tiny form who at the moment was having life breathed into her. Dean watches with a throbbing heart as the girl's chest failed to rise on its own.

More breaths, then counts of the breast pumps. One, two, three.

 _Breath, damn it!_

He loses count, got caught up in the rythms of compressions and breath-breath. His chest ached. His eyes stung. The still got stiller.

Then a cough. And another. She coughs and a trickle of water races down her chin and onto his gloves.

Too out of it with relief, he lets a grin crawl onto his face. The flicker of life behind her dark brown eyes is the last thing he sees before passing out.


	4. Update: Sorry Guys!

**Hey guys!**

 **It's Jaz here, talking face to face (or as close as I can get to that) to all my readers who've supported and encouraged me over the years. I really wish I didn't have to be a bearer of bad news here, but unfortunately this update can't be what you all have been hoping for. This fic is going on an indefinite hiatus, and most likely permanently discontinued. As much I would love to continue writing this, life has been so hectic lately, and as a result I'm not as into these shows as much as I once was and can not write this in way a to give these great characters justice. Especially since this fic takes place in their own universes, it doesn't feel right.**

 **However, this message doesn't have to all bad as it isn't just a goodbye, but it is also me extending a hand out to any reader who would like to commandeer this fic. I welcome anybody who is inspired to continue this story to PM me (or comment on this chapter) a link to their continuation so I can post the link here to redirect readers to them.**

 **Also, I have written tidbits of chapters later on in the fic, so if you would like to see them, I could consider posting them as a series of oneshots withing this universe. Thoughts?**

 **I love you guys so much and cannot express my thanks for the love and support this fic received. Thank you!**

 **~Jaz**


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